i have been experimenting with badassery.

I don't know exactly what's been happening to me over the last couple of years, but I'm starting to... uh... speak my mind a bit more. It's the strangest thing. I don't know if it's just a general surge in confidence, or a growing awareness of mortality that makes me a little ballsier, or a fluctuation in hormones that has put a fritz in my filter, or what... But I've become less apologetic about my opinions and also: less and less tolerant of disrespectful, dismissive, and socially harmful behavior. I mean, like it's really lodged into my craw, and I can't get this seedy little bastard out.

So, I've started calling people on their shit. I've become that person!

[I would like to state that I think I accept people calling me on my shit pretty damn well, too, for the record.]

A few weeks ago, I drove around the block to confront some teenage boys who threw a snowball at my car. Not yelling. I just wanted them to explain their decision to lodge a snowball at an innocent stranger's moving vehicle. They could not. So I suggested they reconsider their choices if they can't come up with intelligent explanations for them.

I've been doing LONG overdue pushing and prodding and pointing, in my professional world. (In fact, the pushing and prodding and pointing have started to exhaust my resources, and I'm noticing physical stress responses, which is why today I am at home tending to those.)

But my biggest moment so far came Tuesday.

Due to the professional pushing and prodding and pointing, and the subsequent appearance of some physical stress responses, I have been working on "letting go of that which I cannot control." (Do I need to explain what a really f'ing difficult feat this is?) I've had this glitch in my character for as long as I can remember. And for several years now "Learn to like yoga" has been on my to-do list.

I do not like yoga.

I have a strange reaction to yoga. It makes me mad. Every time I do yoga, I just feel pissed off and annoyed. I don't understand why others thing it's so calming and centering. What is WRONG WITH ME? (Which reminds me of when I tried to like pot when I was 20, just like the rest of my hippie friends. Oh, it looked like such a grand beautiful giggly great time. Peace and love, Dude! But me? Nope. It just made me paranoid and morose.) I've blamed it before on how friggin' slow everything is. And I hate being talked to in soothing tones. Gaw, just spit it out, lady! I'm not a mother truckin' tulip! Holy J(H)esus!

But someone recently (I don't remember who, but it may have been my friend, Maggie), said, "That's probably a sign that you need to do more yoga." Yes, I suppose so. Yoga reminds me of how much anger and irritation I repress on a daily basis.

So, last weekend I bought 3 books of yoga. I don't want to go to a class. I like to do things alone. Tuesday mornings, the group fitness room at the gym is empty. So I took one of my books, grabbed a mat, and practiced some poses, went through a basic "energizing morning sequence."

Salutations to the sun, Chipper Sprite.

I finished feeling... I don't know. Not really relaxed, but my body was definitely responding to a new and much slower morning workout. I cleaned off my mat thinking this was really the start of something. I would push through the discomfort, and I would be changed. I would be Peace, incarnate.

It was too early to shower and leave. Plus, one of my books said you should wait about 30 minutes to shower, so you don't wash off, uh... Prana? I don't know. Like yoga puts you in a sleepy dream suit and if you take a shower, it'll get wet and lose all its sleepy magical dream powers. Whatever. You don't have to tell me twice.

So I hopped on a treadmill and set it to a nice, slow, relaxing 2.0. Immediately, who should enter and take the treadmill in front of me?

ROD, THE GYM PERV.

I wrote about a very nasty and horrible experience with him: HERE. Oops. Nope. It appears I deleted that post. To summarize: he took the treadmill next to me, and kept looking over at my boobs while I was running. Then when he was finished looking at my boobs, he walked behind my treadmill, stopped, and stared pointedly at my ass for an uncomfortable few seconds. It felt horrible. Diminishing. Violating. Whore-ish. And I wanted to leave immediately. Instead, I kept running and watched him for 30 minutes do the EXACT same thing to every woman there. It's WAYYYY beyond the normal checking-people-out behavior. Being checked out normally by someone at the gym doesn't bother me (because I've probably already done it to them.).

Allow me to reiterate that I have not overdramatized that experience and the absolutely sickening SICKENING energy that emanates from his presence. What he does to women at my gym is despicable and far beyond anything decent. I hate it. I absolutely hate it.

So, fresh from my "quiet the raging storm" yoga, I see F'ING ROD. He NEVER comes to the gym that early. NEVER!

I actually said, aloud to the universe, "Are you testing me? Seriously?"

Because I do think the universe needles with me, as I stated in my LAST POST about the orgasmic grunters. I think I have extra sensitive receptors when it comes to the world. And I truly have days where I feel, physically, like the entire universe is being amplified straight into my head. I can't describe it, exactly, but I know I'm not the only one who experiences it, so I'll just leave it up to you to make the connections. Relatedly, I think one of my life missions is how to reconcile the vast injustice and grotesqueness, and generally very bad and harmful energy that I soak up, and still cast light and remain peaceful.

Hence: Do yoga. Be IMMEDIATELY put to the test.

So... I'm walking. Rod is walking. Rod is craning his neck around the man next to him to watch the woman next to him. He is leaning around the front of the man to look at her boobs while she runs. He is leaning around the back of the man to watch her ass while she runs (literally, he had to bend at the knees and contort to stare very directly and blatantly at her ass). He is ogling the boobs of the women leaving spin class and heading back to the locker rooms. He is turning around to watch their asses while they enter the locker rooms.

I had enough.

I got off my treadmill and felt myself starting to tremble. I squeezed in beside his treadmill, to the front, looked up at him, pointed, and said:

"I see what you do, and it's not okay.
They way you look at women is not okay.
You've done it to me, and I see you do it to everyone else.
On the woman's part, it feels like shit to be looked at like that, and you need to stop or not come here."

He mumbled something then said, "I thought I knew her."

To that I said, "Bullshit." and walked back to the locker room. Still trembling.

I debriefed to a gym friend, and she high-fived me. Then I washed off the magical sleepy yoga dream suit (clearly mine is broken), and left for work. Within a block, I honked at a man who was texting instead of driving forward at the GREEN LIGHT in front of me. Then, I got to work and pushed and prodded and pointed.

Yes, clearly, I need to do more yoga.

Dear world, I cannot solve your problems today. Please leave a message.

singing in front of people even though i don't know what kind of cereal they ate when they were kids.

My COFFEE post isn't due for another 10 days. I've just enjoyed a victory. I will share: Immediately.

Per my COFFEE project, I hiked up my drawers and played my music in front of people--real people. I didn't even know all their names or what kind of cereal they ate when they were kids. Long standing fear here (of playing in front of people--not of cereal). Totally dumb, irrational fear. 'Twas time to rid the stink of the stink.

So I did. Thursday, I ridded stink of stink, more or less.

I had Chrispy ...

[A few days ago, I saw the word, the adjective, "crispy," used in a sentence, and I thought, "Oops, they forgot the h." I'd forgotten it was actually a word before it was Chris's moniker.]

Focus, P! …I had C(h)rispy video some of it for COFFEE. Afterwards, I deeply regretted this. That night, and all of Friday, I would not touch the camera. Aside from a few shaky wedding songs and some very safe back-up singing for Wendy, it has been well over a decade since Music and I went out in public together. Fifteen years ago I would have watched that video and become hyper-critical and violently negative. I would have completely shredded myself, disassembled my soul, and spit loogies straight into the face of my very existence. Then I would have locked my guitar in its case for another fifteen years.

Then picked the wings off a butterfly and kicked an old lady.

(Too much?)

(Yes.)

I like butterflies and old ladies very much, so I avoided the camera with its naked footage of my naked reunion with Music. My music.

This morning I was thinking, you know, I've done some growing in the past 15 years. I can control this now. So I downloaded the videos, said, "Be kind, Dear," and watched. And…

It's not that I was some kind of spectacular shooting star, because I wasn't. I sang wrong lyrics and mis-chorded, and stood kind of awkwardly and in an awkward part of the stage. But the fact that I watched start to finish, and I didn't say a single unkind thing to myself is AMAZING. And heartening! And makes me feel really awesome. I am 36 years old, and I have finally learned how to be nice to myself. Amen.

So now I can break this experience down into 3 triumphs:

1. I played. It scared the poop out of me (literally), and I did it anyway.

2. The playing went exactly as I'd expected; I will explain.

Expectations are a nasty beast. I am happiest (and I would guess this is true for most) when I genuinely appreciate and fully embrace: Here, Now, This, and With These People (hereupon: HNTWTP). Expectation for me has generally meant being constantly 10 years ahead of myself--the anticipation of This will become This which will become This and then This and then This will happen--which causes either total impatience with HNTWTP, total disconnection with HNTWTP, total invalidation of HNTWTP, and/or fear and anxiety, trepidation and subsequent paralysis about F (Future).

And butterflies lose wings and old ladies get kicked in the craw.

I didn't have those kinds of expectations this time around. I expected it to be imperfect, and it was. I expected it to not be a disaster, and it was not a disaster. I expected to not barf or shat myself, and I did not barf or shat myself (I understand that is not proper conjugation of -to shit.). I expected some things to go well, and they did. I expected some things to be clumsy, and they were… And every bit of it was just fine.

None of this was in the spirit of self-sabotaging pessimism. It wasn't negative self talk. It was actually the opposite. It was gloriously positive and uplifting. Hey, Puddin' Pie, you're not perfect. And that's a-okay.

3. I reflected, watched myself, heard myself, and was kind to myself. (Additionally, I would like to thank the sound guy for keeping my clumsy guitar at a mercifully low level. And no, recognizing that I'm a clumsy guitarist is not self-bashing. It's simply having ears.)

Winner!

I'll save the video for the COFFEE post.

No butterflies or old ladies were harmed in the creation of this blog post.

person x, you are not an a-hole.

yesterday i ate 3 donuts and accidentally called someone of authority, Person X, an "a-hole." for the record, it was a total misunderstanding. i was not calling Person X an a-hole. i actually really like Person X a lot. it was a sentence in an email taken out of context, and there was over-the-shoulder reading and… dammit. i didn't call Person X an a-hole! i didn't!

the donuts: these were deliciously circular baked evidence that the universe is a snide and tricky little bastard sometimes. over the past few years, my body has been pushing me with increasing urgency to clean up and clean out my system. my physical reactions to anything processed, anything bread-y, anything sugary, anything the human body was not actually designed to consume, have become more and more UpInMyGrill. my guts, my skin, my mood, everything starts screaming. my right knee has been shitsville for weeks, and i think that's even linked to my nutrition (and possibly the 5-8 pounds i've gained since the marathon).

since Christmas, i've been shoving as much processed sugary crap into my facehole as i can. and my body is revolting. yesterday morning, after skipping the gym for the 2nd time this week (i actually skipped 3 times, but 1 time i stayed home to shovel the driveway, so i count that as a workout), i had a sit-down meeting with my body, and we agreed, "For the love of all that is holy: Pull it together, Woman!" i left for work with steel resolve. i could not continue to treat my body with disregard.

i arrived to work to find: 1 large iced cookie and 1 small bag of candy on my desk. i said to the universe, "WHAT?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" i sat down and immediately put the goodies in a drawer.

i logged into my email and read, "Hey, everybody! I brought donuts for So-and-So's birthday!"

DONUTS! i can't say no to DONUTS! i shook my fist at the ceiling.

and so, on my day of renewed steel resolve to get back on the body track, i skipped the gym and ate:

• 3 donuts
• 1 iced cookie
• 2 fun-sized chocolate candy bars

and i inadvertently called someone of authority an a-hole.

this morning, i have eaten an apple. next i will eat a mostly egg-white (2 egg-whites, 1 whole egg) omelette with kale. and i will not call anybody an a-hole. not on purpose anyway.

the hot dentist.

Sugar makes me intolerant. I've been eating entirely too much lately. Leaving work for the day, I pretended not to see a woman hustling toward the elevator. I let it close. I left her behind. Sorry, Lady. I was just really tired of people. It doesn't matter how much I like you, how cool you are, how attractive you may be; at some point, I'm just really so sick of you I could barf.

I'm intolerant of elevator conversation. "Boy, sure is cold out there!"

"Sure is."

"Boy, just look at all that snow!"

"Yep. I saw it."

"Boy!"

One day last week I had the elevator to myself when a man boarded on the 2nd floor. He stood in the corner. Seriously. It was just him and me, and he stood in the corner with his nose about 1 inch from the emergency buttons. It was pretty weird, but I liked that he was as uninterested in talking to me as I was to him. Too much pretending makes me tired.

And it's Tunnel Time. Underground tunnels (Is there such a thing as an above-ground tunnel?) connect the parking lots and all the buildings. When it's snowing and bitterly cold (Boy! Can you believe this cold?!) I hike the 3 blocks in the dank underbelly of Iowa's capitol. Some people use them all year long. I don't understand this. They bring their tennies and sweat pants and hike back and forth next to the leaky water pipes and strange murals (One mural has 3 black crows flying in such a pattern, with wings at such angles, that it looks like a witch flying on a broom.). I bet there are a lot of body parts cemented in those walls. That's not pleasant.

I'm having weird dreams again. Last night I was chasing a rodent and washing the word "Studwater" off a window. I like knowing when I've popped up in someone's dream. But, I've recently decided to stop telling others when they're in my dreams. Some people really get weirded out about that. I mean, seriously. I think that's ridiculous. I can't be held responsible for what my brain does when I'm sleeping. Just because you're in my dream doesn't mean I'm going to stalk you and leave dead stuff in your yard. I don't have a room in my house lined with sliced newsprint that spells out your name 35 million times.

Or do I? Sleep with one eye open.

I went to the dentist today. I am debating whether or not to publicly confess that I hadn't been to a dentist in well over 10 years. I guess I just resolved my debate. But look: I brush; I floss; I mouthwash; I don't drink pop or weird, sugary juice drinks; I don't eat a bunch of candy. Nothing hurts. Nothing is wiggly and falling out. So, I don't think about going. If it ain't broke…

I went to Chris's dentist. He calls her the "hot dentist." She's pretty, but I wouldn't say she's "hot." Maybe she's just not my type. I don't know. But I lost a filling a while back and let it go too long, and I might need a root canal. I figure root canals probably aren't really all that bad. It's probably just something people say--something that wormed its way into our scripts. Most of our scripts are dumb. So I'm optimistic.

One question on the intake form asked, "Do you plan to keep your teeth for the rest of your life?" Seriously? What kind of question is this? I circled NO.

The hot dentist poked at my gums and scraped at my teeth, and then she took off her mask and told me that other than the missing filling, I had a healthy mouth. She said that: "You have a healthy mouth." She looked disappointed--defeated--when she said it. "You've been really lucky to get away with not going to the dentist." Like I was cheating. Like I'd skipped class all semester and then aced the final. All that flossing and brushing and no-pop-drinking. You sneaky little sneak.

I scheduled a cleaning, too. Tonight I'm drinking red wine just to get a little more bang for my buck.

alyssa milano never wrote me back.

I've thought about writing a million times. And then I didn't, and now I don't remember what I had to say in the first place (So it probably wasn't important.). Thoughts are like that. They just float in and out; I bet 3/4 of them aren't even mine--just remnants of some universal thought bank, wafting, passing through our membranes like smoke through clothes. I wish we had a way to track that (cross-country thought traveling). I guess we do. I guess it's called stories and art and music and dance and stuff. You know, expressive stuff. Maybe that's why the arts are so important--they connect us--maybe more so than banking does.

Although, that's not fair to say. I once had a pretty interesting connection with a lady who worked at a bank. Many many years ago I lived alone in a tiny apartment on the ground floor of an old house. The Mormons came a-knocking: a young woman about my age, and her mother. There was something about the young woman that I instantly liked (I think it's pretty easy to tell if someone is bringing you light.); plus it really interests me how people develop such strong convictions. I mean, it doesn't really matter what you think about Mormons: knocking on people's doors uninvited because you feel like you have a very important thing to tell them is a pretty ballsy thing to do.

Wait. Not Mormons. She wasn't a Mormon. Mormons are young men in black slacks and white button-downs. She was… I don't remember. But there was a kid in elementary school in Kansas who was this, too, and he had red hair and wasn't allowed to participate in any Christmas stuff.

It doesn't matter. Balls.

So, this young woman, I said, "Sure, come on in." And we talked for a while, and I learned that she had really explored different faiths extensively--traveled, read, experienced--and arrived at these convictions thoughtfully. I was impressed by that. She asked if she could come back, and I said "Sure" to that, too. So, for several weeks, she would come over, usually just by herself after that, and we'd hang out and talk about God and her faith. It wasn't a debate. I didn't agree with her, and I wasn't going to convert, but I liked hearing her talk about it. I think we just both kind of enjoyed the shared time. Then she left for a year-long mission trip.

Anyway, all that to say she worked at a bank. So you can work at a bank and still connect with humanity in meaningful ways. Actually, one thing my mom always told me, which I understand more and more, is that it really doesn't matter what you do for a living--that you always always always have an opportunity to make a difference to someone. (Relatedly, my dad always says it doesn't matter what you do for a living as long as you do it well and with integrity: doctor, attorney, barista, garbage collector, cable man, pizza delivery dude… whatever) I think that's why it's important that no matter how you earn your paycheck, you should try really hard not be an asshole while you do it.

[I don't know where this crap comes from. Sometimes I sit down to write, and I have no idea what I want to say until it starts coming out, and then I think, "What? What's that doing in there?"]

My body feels gross. It needs to get back to the gym. It needs me to stop putting so much garbage in it. It needs me to cut back on the wine. Really, I've been drinking too much wine. It needs me to rein it in, for crying out loud. It needs several days of fruit and veggies and water. It needs me to not stop at Walgreens on the way home from Chrispy's gig at midnight because I have a sudden overpowering urge for Milanos.

Which reminds me that I once wrote a letter to Alyssa Milano asking for advice about becoming an actress, and she never wrote back.

Jehovah's Witness. That's it. Man, I'm glad we got that squared away.

pull it together, p

It's Pull It Together, P Day at my house. I'm not sure 1 day is enough, so thankfully tomorrow is Sunday. My shiz scatters to the 4 winds so easily, so regularly. I don't know where anything is. C is patient, but last night, while cursing everything solid as I hunted for lost things (things I needed in order to complete a project I should have finished at least 4 months ago), I realized my mess had kind of buried him, too. I don't understand exactly how my piles get so disorderly; they just do. I am some kind of human hurricane, bumbling bermuda triangle, two-legged typhoon. I am, from time-to-time, a natural disaster. At least I'm nice. And I make good cheesecake.

Surprisingly, I'm really good at setting up organizational systems. I even like doing it. I have color-coded files at work and a "directory" indicating what goes in each color. I don't actually put anything in those files, however. The intended contents are dog-earred and busting out of off-colored folders on my desk.

Yesterday I had lunch with Katie MacDaddy (who isn't "MacDaddy" anymore, but I can't let go), and we discussed our dual personalities -- that likely everyone has multiple personalities; it only becomes disorderly if they start talking with accents and making important life decisions. For instance, I house both an introvert and an extrovert. Sometimes my introvert wakes up and finds that the extrovert has abandoned our person in the middle of a party. That's bad news. Sometimes my anal retentive librarian takes over the wheel to discover that the Bohemian Baton Twirler has filled all the labeled accordion files with leaves and doodles during her shift.

I see a cobweb by the TV. Gross.

And so, today, on local (very local) Pull It Together, P Day I will dig through my crap and organize my crap, and find my lost crap, and throw out some old crap, and crap like that, so that C will not be tempted to go out and find himself a nice, tidy librarian.

don't call me.

I did not have a rough week, but I did have an "oh, I don't care for items 1, 2, and 3" week. That's fine. You can't care for everything. If you cared for everything, you'd explode with care, which is messy.

I don't care for things that make me feel dumb. Do you?

Sometimes I have to do things that remind me of the limits of my intelligence and the weird ways I identify. Sometimes I have to go to meetings about things like government distribution policies. Sometimes I have to sit in on webinars about federal standards of measurement. Sometimes I get invited to these things as an "expert," and then I show up in my pink checkered apron skirt and plaid shoes with my mountain hair and everyone else is in brown pants and leather loafers with combed hair, and they think I've arrived by mistake, and then I say "No" and show them my invite, and so they ask me expert questions and I have to say, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about," and then it is confirmed that no, really, you are here by mistake. Except the the truth is that, sure I knew what they were talking about, I just didn't understand HOW they were talking about it.

So I wander back to my doodle pad and markers dragging my flowered kite and feeling very stupid and young and very different.

In actuality: I'm not stupid, I'm not as young as a child, and I'm not different. My conceptual tools are just mismatched to the situation sometimes, and I like to paint with all the colors of the wind (just like Vanessa What's Her Face and Pocahontas).

So I take walks, and I wonder if it's just me and my projections and paranoia. Maybe nobody else really gives a crap that I use different lingo and wear pink checkered apron skirts and don't comb my hair. Maybe that's just stuff, and I'm the one with the preoccupation, not them. They're nice, smart, cool people. Why am I itemizing their leather loafers as if somehow that defines them? Why do I assume that leather loafers means someone could not possibly understand the magical complexity of my character? That's so dumb it's painful.

Because if genomes are any indication, people who wear loafers and people who wear plaid shoes, are 99.9% identical. Bankers and Bohemian Baton Twirlers are practically identical twins. So in any case in which we feel unique or different or extraordinary is a total illusion/delusion. We are same same same. But why am I even talking about shoes at all?

Sometimes we misinterpret what we see and accidentally fragment and reduce. That's not very productive, and I think on a larger scale it makes the world weird and dysfunctional, because we never bother to see beyond our own perception (which is never complete). I have this powerful need to be seen and accepted fully, for all parts. (I should do a better job of seeing and accepting others fully, for all parts.) And sometimes I am told that I am flighty and ridiculous.  Sometimes I hear others refer to me as liberal, bleeding heart, hippie. And although I have no problem with flight, ridiculousness, liberal thought, bleeding hearts, or hippies, I always feel a little... crooked, as if my entire being has been squeezed into a toothpaste tube, and then I want to stop and explain so that some flimsy and strange version of myself isn't out floating around the universe. For instance:

I am not spontaneous and free-spirited. I am anxious. The unknown makes me nervous. I'm scared of making an imperfect plan. So, when I plan I get nervous and overwhelmed (because it has to be PERFECT!) and then I procrastinate and run out of time and finally am forced to be "spontaneous" (and very very imperfect).

I don't know how to choose a political party. I do know how to choose what makes the most sense to me. I don't understand abortion protests anymore than I understand war protests. I'm not "pro" either, but I do believe in starting where you are, which sometimes happens to be in the middle of very real crises. I think Peace and Life For All are beautiful ideas, but until we fully and universally commit to honoring and loving and granting equal rights to the person next door, Anti-Abortion and Anti-War don't seem like very practical options.

Atheism doesn't make much sense to me. Neither does dogma.

I believe in ghosts and aliens and spirit guides and God and reincarnation and Heavens and Hells and Nirvanas and evil and joy and religion and shamanism and that the earth has a soul, because it all seems logical based on what I know or think I know of energy, electrical currents, neurocircuitry, and human psychology. It's also based on my instinct. I don't think this makes me wishy washy.

I do not, however, believe in unicorns or flying horses or fairies or elves or "magic" in the literal sense.

I think instinct works best when it partners with research and that research works best when it partners with instinct. And I think everything can be proven in one way or another, and it's just what we accept as "proof" that varies.

I think capital punishment is scary and sad and that the margin of error is dangerous. But I cannot think of a better option given our current circumstances. I think we should love and forgive each other the best we can but also recognize that the earth as we know it has limited capacity and our current system requires money and that housing people in prisons (which are full) costs money and that money runs out and that there are a lot a lot a lot of people having babies, so we're not going to run out of people any time soon. And if reincarnation works out okay, maybe both the killer and the killee will get another chance at being cool. I think it makes better sense to work on the context in which crime happens.

I think we should meditate and pray and work hard and be nice and not worry too much about what we call ourselves.

That is to say, I really like it when I can show up to the party as-is, and not worry about whether I'm same or different or accepted or rejected or mislabeled or smart or stupid or belonging or misplaced. I like it when people don't call me flighty or ridiculous and don't assume I'm any more liberal than I am conservative or any more hippie than non-hippie, because it makes me feel really weird about my identity. Sputtery. And I really like it when I have the sense to not do it to others.

[This really long post is brought to you by a week of incredible weather and lunch time walks that make my brain full. Congratulations if you made it through the whole thing.]

it sounded like this: GYAAHH.

I've been buzzy this week. I think the alleged crack in my foot (formerly believed stress fracture to fibula, but 2nd opinion -- formed by a lot of mashing of thumbs into the side of my foot -- suggested general irritation to cuboid, if you like to keep track of such things), triggered a zippy nerve to my brain. Or maybe it's just the pronounced focus on Body that plants me a little more firmly within it (Did that sentence make sense? I can't tell.). Or maybe it's the 1.5 week break from running and all that stupid stationary biking (I do not like the stationary bike. I do not.). Whatever the cause, I feel like a stricken bell ringing from the inside.

I ran 3 miles around the neighborhood yesterday, ankle wrap, knee wrap, it felt fine, more or less. Caught a couple of minor zingers, depending on how I landed, but as long as I kept my stride short and pace slow (no problem there), fine fine fine all around. It made me happy.

Although, today I was supposed to participate in the NAMI walk. I was feeling selfish and protective of my bones, so I am sitting in my red chair instead. I might actually be able to pull off this marathon business, afterall. It won't be graceful or pretty. It won't be fast or impressive. But it will be complete and hopefully upright. Yes, my only goal, really, at this point, is to finish upright.

While I was doing my modest 3 yesterday, I was having a conversation with myself about why in hell's bells I want to continue doing something that has created such unmistakable physical havoc. My knees are goofed. My ankles are goofed. My feet are goofed. It has to be more than pride. I mean, sure, I'm prideful, but I think, if I may say so, I have a better handle on ego than most (which I may have just disproven by writing that sentence). I think it's a transition thing. My life, as I know it, has been in kind of this monkey morph state. I see the next phase coming and want to make sure I've sent this one out with a gong. I am petrified at thought of looking back on my life and seeing one long blendy, indistinguishable watermark.

But back to the buzzy stricken bell bit -- I feel like when I'm buzzy, I notice more. Things jump out at peculiar angles, and I feel like everything is purposeful. Thursday at lunch, I took the bus downtown to meet C for lunch. Two strapping young White men got on the bus with me. They were dressed nicely -- dress pants and button down shirts with ties. They were wearing name tags, but I didn't pay attention to what they said. They sat at the front of the bus by the front door. I sat at the back, by the back door.

We rode a few blocks, and a young Black woman was taking a long time to board. I realized she was carrying: 1) a baby strapped to her chest, 2) another baby in a car seat, 3) a giant stroller, 4) a large trash bag full of clothes, and 5) a purse. She couldn't get it all. The two young men just sat and watched. They did nothing. I got up, walked to the front of the bus, and carried her stroller and her laundry bag. Then went back to my seat thinking, "Hey, doofuses! Wake up! This is what you do when someone needs help." Then, I decided to give them some credit. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they didn't notice. Maybe they didn't realize what was happening until I had already gotten up to help. Maybe they were feeling bad right now. Maybe I'd shamed them.

But then, a few blocks later, we stopped, and the woman with the babies and the bags got up and started to repeat the process in reverse to exit the bus. And... STILL.. the young, healthy men did NOTHING. They just sat and watched. So again, I got up, walked to the front, carried her car seat and clothes bag down to the sidewalk and then got back on the bus. I looked at the young men more closely this time. Their name tags: "Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints." I think I actually made a noise, and I think it sounded like this: GYAAHH. I wanted to shake them, "Hey! You just missed your mission! I assure you, Jesus would not have just sat and watched someone struggling."

And then I spent the rest of the bus ride debating hypocrisy and irony and youth and dogma and perfection. On one hand, if you're going to wander around spreading the word of Jesus Christ, if you're actually going to wear his name on your chest, you better take that very seriously, roll up your sleeves, and represent. Because when you don't, it makes people like me have a really hard time with affiliation.

On the other hand, I'm as big a hypocrite as they come, and really have no room to judge anybody else, even if they do happen to be wearing the name Jesus Chris on their chests. In fact, we're all hypocrites. It's nearly impossible not to be. Because no matter our affiliations and our espousals, we're still humans, which means we're still fallible. And we have to forgive our imperfections. If we want people to forgive us ours, we have to be willing to forgive them theirs. And crap like that.

And then I thought about how I think some religious communities really do a disservice with the confines they enforce, the Perfect Living they insist is possible and required. And that I think a lot of soul & world damage comes from the act of constantly rubbing our natural grains the wrong way (Which reminds me of training for marathons and fracturing bones through repetitive force.). So when we insist on rigid rules and narrow interpretations of what's "natural" and "right," we do way more damage than good. We actually chip away at our souls. Improve what needs improving; forgive what needs forgiving; find and create love and joy and peace and service as often as you can, that's my motto (which I frequently and inadvertently violate, which takes me back to being a horrible hypocrite. Please forgive me.).

This post is like a long, gravel road, winding through space.

electric wriggling ball of stuff

I found a thick and intimidating spider scrambling across the carpet to the wall next to my red readingwritingandthinking chair today. I believe in the souls of things, that they are sacred and important, and we should do our very best to not tread all over them. ...But spiders flip my shiz. Snakes are cool. Spiders, not so much. (Actually, I do think spiders are kind of cool, but in the same way poltergeists, are. I don't want either one of them in my living room.) (I don't really want snakes in my living room, either, but.. I don't know where I'm going with this.)

At any rate, I saw the spider, spontaneously revisited my vow to go gently on the earth and do my very best to not tread all over souls, then grabbed a shoe, said, "Thankyouforyourserviceandpleasegoodjourneytoyoursoul," and I killed it dead. Squished it and its soul.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spider. One day I will cancel my fear of spiders and live with you harmoniously. But not today. Today I will kill you.

Next, I will write 3 paragraphs about my skill for camouflage:

In this first paragraph, I will review something that happened to me very very (very) frequently when I taught at the community college, which is the same thing that happened to me very very (very) frequently when I worked at the gym. I had taught at the college for 3 years, and in that 3rd year, teachers I had been seeing in lounges and hallways, some I'd already been introduced to, often approached and re-introduced themselves and welcomed me to the staff. I'd been at the gym almost a full year when members often commented, "Oh, you're new." And I would smile and say, "Nope, [first name], I've been here a while."

Now, in the second paragraph, I will tell you a story about what happened last week in the cafeteria of my current job, where I have worked for 1 year and 3 months. The man who makes the deli sandwiches, L, to whom I have said hello at least 137 times, and who has made me at least a dozen tuna salad sandwiches, said, "Oh, hi. What's your name? You're new here."

Finally, in this paragraph, I will note as I have many times in the past, that I would make an excellent spy, because I apparently blend very well with my surroundings. I mean, sure, if it happens once, maybe even twice, you could argue that people are thick-meloned and don't pay attention. But if it happens 10 times, by 10 different people, you really ought to take a long gander in a mirror just to make sure you are actually present in your body, and that it wasn't snatched and replaced with a stranger's.

Now that I've talked about that, I guess I'll just ramble on about how creative I've been the past few weeks, and like I've really squeaked open a hidden pantry. Songs are coming out. A new tale-telling venture is hatching (which I will keep secret until I am sure I won't self-sabotage, as that is kind of my way of things -- to self-sabotage, a very special trick I've been perfecting since I was about 22.). A cool work project is lighting my noggin on fire. In passes such as these I get a vision of myself, and I like it. I'm buoyed by it. There is even some spirit of creation in the marathon training, which I can't quite put my finger on.

At the exact same time, there's a little undercurrent of Holy Shittedness. And I think I have a better understanding of why I keep the reins so tight. Every time I nudge the door open, all this stuff, this exciting, electric, wriggling ball of stuff, starts barreling toward the light. Although I know it's good, and it's liberating, and it's as it ought, it's alarming. So I gasp and kick shut. Typhoons just aren't sustainable.

Mr. Ebu-Pants is laying across my legs. I feel his motor running, and I love this cat. His is my favorite feline soul.

today is cool, and so are you.

Things about today that were cool:

I wore a print with a plaid and shiny sneaks. I don't know what it is about dressing oddly that makes me so joyful, but it does. (Sometimes I accidentally dress badly, and that doesn't make me joyful. There's a difference between odd that works and odd that doesn't and is just uncomfortable.)

I had a really nice run in crisp, morning air, and my knees didn't hurt very much, and I didn't hack loogies all over Des Moines, and I was a little faster than usual. It was kind of zen-y, and I love the poop out of that.

I ran the last mile doing laps around a high school track while a marching band was practicing on the football field in the middle. It kind of made me feel like I was 16 again, which actually was not cool. Frankly, I really sucked at being 16. I sucked at being all ages that ended with "-teen," and really did not like it at all. So while running my laps and listening to bells and drums and tubas, I thought about the business of age. I thought about how I would like to take some cosmic white-out and just cover up my life from about age 13-26. Twenty-six, I think, is when I started to pull it together and stopped doing so many asinine, self-destructive things. I wouldn't want to erase it; I know enough to understand those years contributed to who I've become (and I kind of like her and her imperfections, even though they can be aggravating from time to time-- This realization is the cool part.).

I wore the racer back tank that shows off my tattoo. Here, this is vanity. Or is it? I don't know. But on days when people can see the carolina chickadee on my back, I feel a little bit cooler (even though it was only to the gym).

I walked to the river and sat on the Simon Estes Amphitheater stage staring at the water and the bridges and the people and the cars and the sky and the trees over lunch. I haven't done that in a while -- just sat with myself without music or the company of a person or task. I really love what my brain does when I unlock the box and let it fly around and touch stuff. I love the observations I make, and the questions that form, and the superfly peace I feel when I'm swimmy.

I discovered VIA from Starbucks, which has eliminated my need to drink the ass-coffee brewed up in the office during my afternoon lull. I do not think this needs further narrative.

I spent the entire day working on a project that excites me. It's a presentation I'm giving at our HIV conference about how to reconcile right and left brain thinking to make data analysis more than just a bunch of math. And I'm using Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor's book, My Stroke of Insight, as a foundation. And I have to tell you that I love this human, what she gives, the sense she makes, and the thousand different colors that explode in my melon when I read her words or listen to her talk:

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princess pride does the opposite

I have this working theory about ego and behavior -- that any time ego is telling you to do something, you should do the exact opposite of that thing.

For instance, sometimes Princess Pride gets an injury. Sometimes the injury is deliberate: Person A, who makes all kinds of decisions based on ego and doesn't give a poop, insults and condescends and degrades. Sometimes the injury is accidental: Person B, who is awesome in 1,000 different ways, injures Princess simply by being awesome. (In which case, it isn't actually Person B who injured Princess, it was Princess's alter-ego, Insecurity, who turned and injured from the inside.)

At any rate, I have had fleeting moments of clarity when Princess received an injury, and I made myself do the exact opposite of my most immediate urge -- most immediate urge being to injure back -- to insult, degrade, belittle; and the exact opposite being -- to compliment Person A or B on the accomplishment in question.

In those moments in which Princess has suffered injury, and I have done the exact opposite of my most immediate urge, I have experienced a 100% rate of improved fuzzy bunny feelings. 100%. I cannot think of a single time that I implemented this scientifically-approved strategy without positive effect/affect.

On the flip side, I can think of MANY times in which I did NOT implement this strategy, that Princess was injured, and I followed my most immediate urges. In these cases, I have experienced a nearly 100% rate of worsened feelings. Maybe not immediately, but always eventually. I say "nearly 100%" because there are so many times, I'm sure I've lost track and cannot report this statistical analysis with a spreadsheet or a color-coded bar graph.

Now, here is where I reiterate this other working theory that I have that says there is only one system, one cycle, in existence, and it repeats itself in varying forms and at varying scales. That is, our personal, biological systems and cycles mirror systems in forests and oceans and politics and tupperware production and cat mating rituals and how televisions work. Therefore, if we get to know one system (to me, it makes sense to start with self. But you could also start by studying trees, if you'd prefer.), we will have enough understanding to apply elsewhere.

After careful self ego Princess Pride injury do the opposite study, I have concluded that we could replicate this on a global scale. There are matters of national security, of course, that must be handled. But I think even that could be handled compassionately. Sadly, it would really only work if everyone did it. And I'm not that delusional. But, it really really makes me love the living crap out of ideas like Stephanie's:

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=140441369332304

I think September 11 is as good a day as any to not let Princess Pride run the show. That's kind of what caused the mess in the first place.

(in my humble opinion)

yo mama don't live here

I shouldn't write when I'm cranky.

But I'm gonna.

First, I will say, as I have 14,000 times before (because I seem to revisit the same themes over and over) is that part of my soul plan is to learn how to let go... of lots of things, but they all likely boil down to perfection. I'm supposed to let go of the idea of perfection. Self, world, others... all imperfect. And that's okay.

I would like to amend that: Imperfection is okay. But it's not okay to just run around being a big jackass with no regard for Other People (They exist! And they really like it when you use your turn signal and say Please and Thank you.)

I've been wrestling with this idea of judgment, and how I really shouldn't--as an imperfect little wrinkled mess--cast it. I keep thinking I need to learn how to "go with the flow." But something about it just doesn't sit right.

And then... this was my Rob Brezsny horoscope last week, and I thought, my my my, what perfect timing, you tricky minx.

Taurus Horoscope for week of August 12, 2010

When they say "Go with the flow," what "flow" are they talking about? Do they mean the flow of your early childhood conditioning? The flow of your friends' opinions? The latest cultural trends? Your immediate instinctual needs? When they say "Go with the flow," are they urging you to keep doing what's easiest to do and what will win you the most ego points, even if it keeps you from being true to your soul's code? I'm here to ask you to consider the possibility that there are many flows to go with, but only one of them is correct for you right now. And in my opinion, it is flowing in an underground cavern, far from the maddening crowd.

Precisely! Which flow? Because I've been observing a lot of really asinine flows, and none of them seem like a very good idea. The trouble isn't the not-going-with-the-flowness; it's that I don't know how to observe asininestry, detach from it, and continue without angst. When I observe a complete lack of sense, to the point of destructiveness, I don't know how to: co-exist peaceably, resist the destructive flow, and/or point out the damage and demand change. I observe acts of disregard, and they stick in my craw, then I become kind of a jerk (which is ironic).

An example: driving to the fair Friday night, we were following a car with a specialty license plate with a U.S. flag and the words "God Bless America!" Two guys in front, smoking with the windows cracked. Little kid in back. Then, out the driver's window: an empty, crumpled cigarette box, tossed into the street. Few seconds later, out the passenger's window: another empty, crumpled cigarette box, tossed into the same street. And I thought, "Really? God Bless America? Just not this particular block of America's East Euclid? This particular block of America's East Euclid can suck it? But the rest? Bless that? God Bless America, but not the kid in your back seat who lives in it? God Bless My Trash? God Bless America, Mother Earth can bite me?" I grumbled angrily about it for many blocks, and felt genuinely... flummoxed. If you're going to drive around with bold exclamations on your bumper sticker, know what they mean, Jackass.

I mean, what is the right thing to do? What's the flow? Hey, okay, people throw trash. That's just the way it is, so don't get upset? But... it's not okay to throw your trash around. "Oh, it's just a cigarette box." How many people in the world, in a day, throw out a cigarette box? How many people throw out their fast food bags? A plastic water bottle? A pop can? A sink? It adds up! We don't live in isolation! And if we say okay now, when does it stop? Plus, what does that say about how you view yourself in comparison to the planet? That you are above it? That you are superior? And if you feel you are superior to the planet, and that your actions have no impact, what else will you do? What happens when the entire world implodes in the center of a giant mosaic of plastic bags and crumpled Lucky Strikes? It's not okay to treat the earth like your own personal toilet. It's just not!

So many things I see in a day, and I think, "Hey! That's not okay!" And some of them are so small. They are woes the width of a hair. But even things that are small are indicative of larger things. Like: not saying thank you when someone opens the door. Small. But big. It's how you view other people (if you view them at all). If you have so little regard for others that when they hold a door for you, you cannot muster a thank you, what else can you not muster to do? How will you treat people, on a larger scale, if you don't think they matter? It's the energy you feed the world. Don't feed the world your sucky, haughty, destructive energy, man! Be nice! Be respectful! Be cognizant!

I'm spending all this time telling myself, "don't judge. don't judge. don'tjudgedon'tjudgedon'tjudgedon'tjudge." But how can some things not be judged? Some things are really quite awful. Am I supposed to pretend they're not? Am I supposed to pretend I don't have opinions about basic, decent human behavior? Because, you know what I really want to do? I want to grab people by the shoulders, and I want to yell at them, "You! You are being an asshole!" I want to sit them down and point into their faces and say:

You. When you are at work... work. Give a crap. Show some integrity. Do it.

You. When someone honest and kind loves you, don't shit on them. Don't.

You. Cats have claws. Period. Stop yanking them out. That's cruel.

You. Stop treating your dog like a thing. Your dog is a gift and a teacher. Cherish, Jerk Face.

You. Stop cutting down all the trees and barfing your junk into the water. Stop mucking up the sky with your charcoal stick. Would you stab your mother in the eye with a fork?

You. Don't sleep with your best friend's ex. That's really bad taste.

You. With your anti-gay marriage rally. Your energy is going the wrong direction. This is foolishness. Lobby for love, respect, and responsibility. Lobby for not-jumping-shipped-ness-at-the-first-sign-of-trouble. Lobby for not-using-marriage-as-a-crutch-for-your-brokenness. Lobby for understanding the power and sacredness of marriage as a vehicle for soul growth and spiritual development. Watch what happens then.

You. With your arms full of plastic grocery bags. Forego your case of Mountain Dew and spring for a few reusable grocery totes. They cost $0.99 each. Have you looked at the ocean lately?Also, Mountain Dew is a horrible choice. Do you hate your own guts?

You. Wherever you're going, I'm pretty sure they have a trashcan. Would it kill you to hang onto that piece of crap until you get there?

You. Contribute.

You. How 'bout you spend the rest of your life trying really really hard not to toss your unexamined life garbage onto other people? Hey, you're not perfect. You'll screw up. But when you do? Apologize. Mean it. And then clean up your mess. Yo mama doesn't live here.

That's what I want to say. But I'm too busy apologizing and cleaning up my messes. My mama doesn't live here.

serious runners are always ready to run

Physical therapy appointment today, and my usual PT was out of town. She set me up with another, a strapping young guy who is the running guru. She told me to bring shorts and running shoes, because she would have him watch me run to determine if I do something stupid (my words).

I follow directions most of the time.

This morning, I packed a set of running clothes, and due to a laundry back-up, had to choose between a tight tank or the super fancy technical shirt from the Amy Thompson 8K in Kansas City (a cool shirt and super comfortable, but covered with sponsorship tags and... Well, when you wear it, you might as well also begin every conversation with "HelloI'marunner."). Reasoning the tank would be too cold and too... boobalicious... I decided to look like I was trying too hard.

Fast forward, and I arrived at my PT appointment with my running clothes in a large plastic bag. I also brought my knee wrap. I excused myself to the bathroom to change, thinking, "I will be on top of it. I will change and be ready and not keep the strapping young PT waiting." I felt mildly stupid when I put on the race shirt. Plus, strapping young men always make me feel shy. Always. I am 36, but I am 12 when it comes to strapping young men.

Then I returned to the waiting room to sit in a chair in full running gear (complete with knee wrap), my work clothes inside the plastic bag I held on my lap.

I was not wearing sweat bands around my head or wrists, but I would like to go ahead and pretend that I was, because I think that makes it funnier.

Oh, I would also like to pretend that I was carrying the water bottle that straps to my hand and that it was full of Gatorade.

Strapping young PT fetched me from the waiting room. In the exam room area, he stretched my knee cap, talked to me about some stuff, checked my squat form, talked to me about some more stuff, taped my knee, and then I realized he was wrapping things up.

I said, "Weren't you going to watch me run?"

He looked confused. "No, we don't need to do that today."

I looked down at myself, my running shorts, my technical race shirt, running shoes complete with toe tag identification, [sweat bands and water bottle], knee wrap, knee tape, my real clothes in a plastic bag on the floor, and I started to laugh. "Did you think I was taking things just a little too seriously?"

He smiled and said it was easier to see my form when I squatted. [Let me translate that for you: "Yes. You are weird."]

I laughed all the way out of the office, through the parking lot, to my car, and to the grocery store, where I then exited my car -still in full running gear, now with knee tape- and paraded around the produce aisles as if I was just about to go run some serious miles just as soon as I bought up some pineapple and turnip greens.

This might be as nice as I get.

My character has some unsavory nuggets. I get really annoyed with adults who make stupid decisions [Translation: I am judgmental and want everyone to have the exact same values and sensibilities that I have. When they don't, I think they are morons.]. I hold onto irritations like I'm protecting a big red button to the universe. I would like to let go of these ugly tendencies for the sake of a sparkly soul and improved relationships.

To my favor, I also believe that every problem under the sun has a solution, and I'm pretty sure I can figure out what it is. So yesterday, I devised a strategy to fix my broken junk. Every time I entered my familiar irritation dialogue (Which usually starts with "Gah, jackass.") I would imagine a patient, stoic, teacherly sort saying, "Give that to me, please," as if I were a clumsy child with scissors.

This morning was Day 1 of the new "Be Nice" plan. I spent 85% of the morning hearing, "Give that to me, please.... Give that to me, please... Give that to me, please..." By 2:00, I hated the patient stoic teacher sort, told him to go eff himself, gathered all of my broken junk, held it to my chest, and decided, with some regret, that this might be as nice as I get.